


That I Live

by Natasha



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasha/pseuds/Natasha
Summary: Blake makes a puzzling decision and then tries to explain it by telling Jenna about an event from his past.





	

 

The shooting is now over, but my nerves are still on edge, and the dead silence which has replaced the noise of gunshots doesn't bring any relief. It feels unnatural in this area which is supposed to be alive with the chirping of birds and noises of small animals living in the mountains. Rationally, I know it is quiet because the shooting has scared them away; but I cannot get rid of an uncanny, superstitious idea that the silence is really being emitted by the dead bodies – that they are somehow producing it, like a living person may produce laughter, or a cry of pain.

I wish the Liberator hadn't been forced to abandon its orbit, leaving us with no choice but to engage in this battle and hold out until it returns. I know that we are relatively safe now and that the ship will be back for us soon, before we are exposed to any further danger. It will be too late, however, for the two people whom it was our mission to save. Heyst and Elena, the two rebel leaders who contacted Blake and asked him to provide transportation to a safer planet, are now both dead. So are all of the Federation troopers in the patrol which attacked us. I am uninjured, and glad to see Blake hasn't sustained any wounds, either. The only other survivor from the battle – though I find it ironic to call him that – is a mutoid.

We have rarely come across male ones, but it doesn't make much difference. I find them all equally terrifying and repulsive: unnatural complexion, glassy eyes and the crude, helmet-like headpiece concealing brain implants and replacing hair, which has stopped growing as a consequence of modification. I notice that he hasn't been wounded, but only suffered a concussion. During the battle a hand granade must have exploded nearby, thrown him off balance and made him hit the rockface. Now he is lying motionless, but still alive – if one can say of these creatures that they are alive at all.

Not that I am particularly interested in coming closer to inspect him. I still have vivid, nightmarish memories of that other mutoid, Travis's companion Keera, who came very close to feeding on my blood. Blake does seem intrigued by this one, however: he squats by his side and observes his features intensely. I watch him touch the swelling on the mutoid's head, trying to establish if the injury is serious. For a while, he is as motionless as the mutoid, looking at him, or through him, lost in thought. Finally, he gets up, walks up to the dead bodies of Heyst and Elena and removes the teleport bracelets we have given them. Then, to my astonishment, he places one of the bracelets on the mutoid's wrist.

'Blake!' I gasp. 'You don't seriously mean to bring this thing on board the Liberator?'

'It will be all right, Jenna. We'll be extra careful. We'll keep him locked in a cabin until... until I find out if anything can be done,' he adds cryptically.

He opens the mutoid's chest unit and I can see the hideous serum vial inside.

'The vial is still half full,' Blake says. 'It will give us enough time. We'll take a sample of this to the Liberator's laboratories and use medical computers to synthesize a replacement.'

'But... but why?' I don't even want to start arguing with his confident, headstrong claim that the Liberator's computers would come up with a surrogate for the blood serum; I don't even want to consider what might happen if they fail. 'Blake, if you intended to question him, it isn't worth the risk. Mutoids are never told much about military operations and plans, you know that as well as I do. They are simply meant to be killing machines, or tireless workers.'

'I don't mean to question him.'

The mutoid suddenly stirs, perhaps to the sound of our excited voices. He lets out a soft groan and opens his eyes. Instinctively, I take a step back and feel for the handle of my gun.

Blake leans down towards him, waiting for a while until the mutoid's gaze becomes focused. 'We've met before,' he says. 'Do you remember me?'

'Memory is an encumbrance,' the creature replies mechanically.

'Your name is Saul. Do you recognize it?'

'Saul,' the mutoid repeats blankly. 'Saul.'

He mutters the name several times and then drifts off again into a semi-conscious stupor. I realize now that this is somebody from Blake's past, someone he was familiar with before modification. And given Blake's concern, his determination to bring the mutoid aboard, this person must have been important to him once.

'Was he one of your people back on Earth, then?' I venture. 'One of the Freedom Party members?'

'I met him on Earth, yes. But he was never a resister. He was a Federation trooper.'

Blake realizes how puzzled I am and smiles, laying his hand apologetically on my shoulder. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound mysterious. We have to wait here anyway until the Liberator comes for us... I'll try to explain.'

*

Below the rugged rocks where the mutoid lies unconscious, and the rebels and the Federation soldiers lie dead, there is a patch of short, scorched summer grass. I sit there to listen to Blake's story. Turning my back to the rockface, and looking towards a small wild meadow in the distance, I wonder if, at least for a short while, I might forget about the dead. It is no good, however – because as soon as Blake starts talking, I realize they will be present in his story, too.

'I've told you about my first encounter with Travis,' he says, 'and how he and his troopers wiped out my entire group. I know it must sound abstract to you when I say "twenty of my friends" – but to me, they are anything but abstract. I can see their faces clearly before my eyes... Their names and personal records were erased from the Central Computers as though they had never lived. The only place where they now exist is my memory, and the only way I can make them real for others is by talking about them. I could tell you a separate story about each one of them – about Doyle, for instance, dark haired and energetic, always gesticulating wildly as he talked, or about Cobb and Myrella, two engineers I'd met while working on the Aquitar Project and persuaded to join us... There was a particular quality to our friendships. Perhaps there is a special kind that only develops within a revolutionary movement. We grew attached to each other very quickly and formed bonds more intense than anything I had previously known in my life.

'The youngest member of my group was Lugh Foster. He was a nephew of my good friend and comrade Bran. He had hardly turned eighteen: when he found out about his uncle's dissident activities, he was determined to join the rebellion as well. He was a starry-eyed youth who always talked in idealistic phrases and had a way of chanting at the end of each sentence, as though he was reciting poetry. Badly reciting, at that...'

Blake smiles at the thought of the youth's voice. I try to smile back, although I know his memory is not really a happy one. I am familiar with the events that followed. On one occassion aboard the Liberator, he told us about the massacre in which all the members of his rebel cell were killed. They gathered for a meeting in the sub-levels; they came unarmed, not knowing that they had walked into a trap set by Travis. Travis ignored Blake's offer to surrender and ordered his men to open fire.

*

 'I remember the first shots,' he says, 'and the panic they immediately caused. We were standing on the platform of some pre-calendar transport station, and we were surrounded. There was no cover, no shelter. It was no different from a summary execution. All around me I saw people screaming, trying to escape in vain, clutching their wounds and falling on the ground.

'Lugh Foster was standing next to me, and didn't seem able to move. I saw that we were in the line of fire of one of the troopers. For some reason, however, the trooper didn't shoot; he took aim at us, but then lowered his gun again.

'This lasted only for a few seconds, but I had enough time to push Lugh to the ground, and then I took my chance. I threw myself at the trooper and grabbed his wrists. We started wrestling and exchanging blows. During the fight his helmet fell off, so I was able to see his face. He was about my age, with tanned complexion and a scar above his left brow. He was quite agile and sinewy, but finally I did manage to get his gun. Just for a brief moment, I happened to have a clear view of Travis. I fired, twice. To me it seemed as though I had blasted his face. I was sure I killed him.

'Almost at the same instance, a shot from another trooper hit me in the leg. I fell down, and then a number of them descended on me, kicking and punching me. Among their cussing and yells I recognized how outraged they were that I had shot their commander. They screamed that I would pay for it. I was on the verge of losing consciousness when I heard a voice shouting, ordering them to stop. Then the crowd slowly cleared, simply leaving me to lie on the ground, knowing I was too badly injured to try anything.

'I realized it had become very quiet. I managed to prop myself up on one elbow so I could look at the platform again. What I saw there, I just couldn't grasp mentally. I saw bodies lying prostrate, some of them on top of others, or on their backs with glassy eyes gazing up, covering the place competely. Most were motionless and bloodied. I stared and didn't know what I was staring at; it was as though my mind blocked and refused to accept that those were the bodies of my friends. Some of them still showed signs of life: here and there I saw motion and heard cries of pain.

'Travis's second-in-command, an officer whose name I didn't know, walked across the platform with a projectile gun. He fired a shot at everyone who was still moving. Doyle cursed him and died with an enraged grimace on his face. Someone else, I couldn't see clearly who it was, tried begging for mercy – in vain. Lugh was still lying quietly, face down, at that very same spot where I'd pushed him. He wasn’t even injured, just frozen with fear. The officer approached him and fired, but there was no discharge. The clip of his gun was empty. He took it out, cast it away and replaced it with a new one. And all that time Lugh was just lying there motionless, waiting for a shot to end his life.

'I was shouting at the officer, yelling at the top of my voice that he was a criminal and a butcher, yelling at the troopers that they had no right to destroy us. I was mad with despair and anger, and there was nothing I could do. My yelling, however, made them turn attention to me again. The officer barked an order, and two of the guards siezed me, cuffed my hands and injected me with an anaesthetic.'

*

 'I came to in some place where the light was much stronger. With the first flicker of consciousness, I remembered what had happened. I don't know how I managed not to scream. As my mind gradually cleared, I kept repeating to myself that I had to remain composed and suppress my emotions. I forced myself to focus on the immediate reality.

'My hands were still tied behind my back, so I could hardly move. All I managed was to slightly lift myself up so I was sitting, leaning against the wall. My injuries were throbbing with pain, with the vicious pulsating in the gunshot wound overriding all the rest. It felt like a beak pecking at my leg; I thought it might signal infection. I was also very thirsty.

I looked around. I was in some kind of a transit cell. It was large but void of almost any facilities; I noticed a water tap, but in my condition I could neither crawl nor walk up to it. Along the opposite wall there was an elevated surface, a kind of a concrete bench for the prisoners to sit on, although it was no less dirty than the rest of that sordid place.

'A man was sitting there, clad in the black uniform of the Federation military. I looked closer and recognized the tanned face and the scar: it was the trooper whose gun I had used to shoot Travis. At first I couldn't make out why he would be in the cell with me. Then I noticed that he had no weapon, and was stripped of his holster, belt and shoulder marks. He was a prisoner, just like me. Clearly, he was thrown in that transit cell to await some punishment that his superiors would decide on.

'I wondered whether he would want to settle a score for what had happened between us on the platform. However, he did not even look in my direction. For some reason, he repeated a number of anxious actions that all seemed to have something to do with his uniform: he would straighten it, check the buttons, or try to rub the stains off his sleeves and trousers. Then he would give it up and sit still again, elbows on knees, hiding his face in his hands.

'Soon I became unable to observe him. I felt very cold, and as the chill increased, I began to shiver uncontrollably. I realized I was running a fever. The hot dry sensation in my mouth and throat confirmed it. My temperature kept rising until I became dazed and lost track of what was happening around me. All I was aware of was the pain, the chill that returned in waves, and terrible thirst. I asked for water. First I was repeating the word in my mind, in a kind of nightmare, and then I also started mouthing it, asking for it loudly.

'I heard someone stirring and turned towards the sound. My mind still hazy, I  remembered that I was sharing a cell with a Federation trooper. My voice must have provoked him. He muttered something like, "I'll give you water" and strode towards me, enraged. He grabbed my shirt and slammed my back against the wall. "You have the nerve to ask for my help," he snarled. "You took my gun! You shot my commander! I'm here because of you!"

'I tried to look into his eyes, but his gaze was unbelievably restless. It's not just that he wouldn't look at me; he seemed unable to fix his eyes on anything. They just kept wandering. I sensed something in him other than anger – some confusion, inner turmoil, something that at first I couldn't quite pin down. I strained to focus and remember in more detail the scene of our struggle on the platform – and suddenly, it all started making sense.

'"No," I said. "You're not here because of me! I saw what you did on the platform. You wouldn't shoot. You lowered your gun. This is why I was able to take it from you."

His lip quivered and he clenched his jaw to stop it, grimacing.

'"You disobeyed Travis's order, didn't you?" I went on. "You didn't shoot anyone. And now you seem to feel upset about it! Don't you realize you did the right thing?"

'I knew I had guessed right. But at that point it only increased his rage. Without saying anything, he punched me in the stomach. Then he turned and went back to his corner of the cell.

'I collapsed on the floor, and was too weak to try to sit up again. I don't know how much time I spent like that. The fever was making me delirious. I was hallucinating. I was on that platform again, re-living the dread of each individual shot, staring again at the bloodied faces of the people I knew and loved. Then I saw Lugh just get up and walk away from the carnage. The officer and the troopers didn't notice him; he walked past them as though he was invisible. He reached the end of the platform, and then he climbed down to where the old subway tracks were laid. He started running down the track, faster and faster, with a mischievous smile on his face. It was all right, I said to myself, he made it, he was alive, he had escaped. Then I snapped out of it, and in a brief moment of lucidity I knew again that he was dead.

'The next hallucination repeated the same pattern. Now I was with Doyle, Cobb, a dozen of others, in one of our hiding places outside the domes. We were laughing and talking about trivial matters, sharing a meal. Everything was all right, no one was killed, they were all fine and well. The dreams were so convincing, Jenna, so comforting; and in between them, each time I woke up and remembered what had happened, the reality was unbearable. All I longed for was to drift into yet another one of those delirious dreams, and then mercifully die in that state of mind, while I was still reassured that my friends were alive.

'Then something changed. At first I couldn't explain it. It just felt as though haze gradually started lifting from my mind, and there was some soothing sensation on my face. I opened my eyes and saw the trooper kneeling beside me. He'd torn a strip off his sleeve, soaked it in water and wiped my forehead with it. He kept the cold damp cloth pressed against the bruises until the pain subsided. He had water in his canteen and helped me drink.

'I thought I must be hallucinating again, but the sense of physical relief was real. I could hardly believe he was there. I tried to look into his eyes again. This time he met my gaze. His eyes were blue and piercing, the clearest thing on his rough tanned face. "He said you were terrorists. Commander Travis said so, at the briefing," he added, explaining. "He said the Freedom Party was planning to carry out a number of bomb attacks on public buildings and civilian objects in the dome's main sector. With no other aim but to spread panic and destabilize the Administration... He said the number of civilian victims would be horrific unless we stopped you."

'He paused, seeing I was hardly able to follow, and gave me some more water to drink.

'"He told us we were lucky to get intel about the meeting where you would all come unarmed. Killing you armed or unarmed made no difference, he said – we should have no qualms about it, since our first priority was to prevent you from murdering innocents."

'"Do you still believe that?" I asked. "I no longer know what I believe," he said. He looked down, straightening his uniform absent-mindedly. "I wonder what my pals in the unit think of me now. A deserter... a traitor. And commander Travis is badly wounded. Or dead."

'He lifted his eyes again. "Why didn't he accept your offer to surrender?" he said, still thinking about Travis. "It made no sense. There was no need to kill all those people. I – I didn't shoot, because it didn't make any sense. And that boy – the one who was standing next to you. He couldn't possibly be a criminal, or a terrorist. I don't think he even harmed anyone in his life. Did he?"

'My eyes filled with tears. I couldn't hold them back any longer. I tried closing my eyes, but the tears trickled down my face.

'"Let me tell you about him," I said, "about all of them." I gathered my remaining strength and began telling him about the Freedom Party, who we were and what we were fighting for.'

* 

'We went on talking, for about half an hour, before they finally separated us. He listened to me attentively and never disputed what I said, although I knew how conflicted he was. I had against me years of systemtic indoctrination that he must have been exposed to. And he still identified very strongly with his role as a soldier. It was evident to me from the way he kept straightening and cleaning his uniform...'

Blake gets up and walks to the unconscious mutoid, studying his face carefully one more time. 'They must have used plastic surgery to remove the scar,' he says. 'It is a part of modification procedure – erasing all trace of one's former identity, including all the remarkable features of one's body or face. Still, I've managed to recognize him.'

'Did you know what they would do to him?' I ask.

Blake shakes his head. 'I had no way of knowing. As a rule, mutoid modification is a punishment inflicted on disobedient slaves. I still find it strange that they have chosen it for him. I wonder whose decision it was.'

'It may have been Travis. It wouldn't surprise me. I bet he craved for revenge the moment he regained consciousness.'

'Possibly,' Blake shrugs. 'I'm not so sure. Travis seems to have a soft spot for his troops. Back then he evidently inspired great loyalty in them. Even in Saul.'

'Would you say that Saul defected? After what you had told him about the resistance, I mean.'

'That hardly matters now, does it?' Blake laughs sadly. 'Besides, he had already done something invaluable for me. He heard me out, and so helped me to honour the memory of my friends...'

 

As Blake's voice quiets down, I realize it is almost dark: the night has descended suddenly on the mountainous terrain. I look at the dark blue sky, wondering when the first stars will become visible. The Liberator should be here soon. Sometimes, on a clear night, it is possible to see its white shape from a planet's surface. It would be reassuring to see it right now, after waiting in these gloomy mountains, beside the dead bodies, and listening to Blake's unsettling story.

I understand why Blake wants to take this man with us, but I still feel it would be pointless and irrational. How does one save a mutoid? And besides, what is there left to save? I think it's only Blake's stubbornness that prevents him from realizing that there is nothing left of the man he once knew.

'Do you believe that there could possibly be a reversal of mutoid modification?' I ask, tentatively.

'There might be,' he replies. 'I don't know much about the procedure. In essence, it must all be about changing the normal human metabolism, but how? Some of the changes may be chemically induced, or involve surgery. Perhaps the key is in the brain implants – and it might be possible to remove them. Our best hope would be to locate some bionics specialists who are politically neutral. Not Kayne's kind of neutral, hopefully... As for his memory, perhaps I can help him recover it. I think I understand now how the Federation psychiatrists create memory blocks.'

He takes my hand. 'It _has_ to be possible, Jenna. Not just for his sake – for the sake of so many others as well. Mutoid modification is one of the vilest things the Federation does to a human being. There must be a way to counteract it, somehow – though ultimately, it will only end when the Federation is destroyed.'

His hand holds mine, and I sense his warmth and passionate belief running through that grip like a current. Just for a moment, I let go of my scepticism and yield to the appeal of his impossible dreams. Perhaps I need this emotion right now, to lift me above this desolate place, and the horrors of death and bloodshed of which we have both seen too many.

*

_About half an hour later, they separated us. A medic walked into the cell, accompanied by two prison guards. He examined Blake briefly, gave him an injection,  and then the guards dragged him out._

_I have been alone ever since. They haven't taken away my chrono, so I know approximately three time units have passed. Some of the guards who bring me meals are silent; some taunt me or insult me openly. One was sympathetic. He told me that commander Travis survived. For a brief period he even regained consciousness, and he asked for my pardoning. He is in a critical condition, however, and they say his appeal cannot be taken into consideration until he is stabilized._

_Several times I have heard screams coming from another cell. I tell myself it doesn't have to be Blake: this is a large complex and there must be other prisoners in it. But whoever it is, I know that something unspeakable is being done to another human being. Once I was able to accept, and declaim, official justifications for such acts; I no longer am._

_Now I hear the buzzing of the magno lock and watch the door slide open. Two guards are standing at the entrance. Without saying anything, I know that they have come to take me away._

_I straighten my uniform. I try dusting my sleeves, but then I remember that a large part of the left sleeve is missing. I tore it off to improvise a rag when I tended to Blake's fever and injuries. The rest of the sleeve flaps just above my elbow. My elbow feels naked and vulnerable. I am no longer a soldier. I don't know what I am now._

_I ask myself if anything of me will remain._

 

 

 


End file.
